In Vino Veritas
by rosiesbar
Summary: A bad night with Margaret and a few too many brandies compel Frank to make a confession that Hawkeye really doesn't want to hear, and that neither one of them want to remember in the morning. Mild slash.


**Warnings**: Slash, angst, and a severe lack of personal boundaries. Nothing that would be out of place in an episode, but potentially triggering so I'm putting it in here.  
**Pairing**: Some extremely awkward Hawkeye/Frank, implied Margaret/Frank, and humorous insinuations of Hawkeye/Trapper.  
**Author's** **Notes**: The title is from the Latin meaning "In wine, truth". For those of you who don't speak pretentious literature grad, it's a saying meaning we are at our most honest when we are drunk. Don't get drunk around people you keep secrets from. Or better yet, don't keep secrets and then you can be drunk around everyone.

* * *

**'In Vino Veritas'**

It was blissfully quiet in the Swamp, save for the steady drip of the still, the hum of the generators, and the distant rumble of human beings bombing the hell out of each other in the name of improving international relations. Hawkeye had retired a little earlier than usual. The still's afternoon offering of Martinis – or was it just straight gin? One could never tell – had been uncommonly awful, so he had been forced to call it a night after only two gag-worthy glasses. As such, with nothing to stay up for, he had crashed out to stare at the canvas above his cot for a couple of hours until boredom finally lulled him to sleep.

The boredom was present in spades, but the sleep was notably absent. So Hawkeye was simply bored. Bored, awake and depressingly sober. And also alone. Trapper was entertaining a nurse in the supply tent for the evening and wouldn't be back until the small hours, swaggering and boasting. Frank was also on a date – he'd sidled off to Hotlips' tent making some overly officious noise about brushing up on new anaesthetics procedures. It was more than apparent to Hawkeye, Trapper, and the majority of the English speaking world that the appointment had far less to do with the anaesthetics and far more to do with the brushing up (and down, and against, and any which way they could brush).

So it came as something of a shock when Frank came stomping back into the Swamp after only an hour. _That was quick_, Hawkeye thought, watching with more than a hint of _Schadenfreude_ from his dark corner as Frank kicked off his already-unlaced boots and threw the textbook that he and Hotlips had been "studying" back onto the shelf. Hawkeye was almost grateful. Baiting Frank was always the perfect cure for a dull night.

"That was a short date," he declared, not even bothering to hide the smirk in his voice.

"Huh?" Frank's dopey reply was accompanied by a rabbit-in-headlights stare as he realised Hawkeye was awake.

"Less than an hour? I didn't think you could even take a bra off in that time with _your_ fingers."

His face perfectly illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the window, Frank went bright red and seemed to vibrate in apoplectic rage. "Oh... blow it off your high horse!"

Hawkeye chuckled at the 'originality' of his insult. One day, he thought, he should compose a book dedicated to all the Burnisms he'd collected over his stay in Korea. "Oh don't take it so personal, Frank." He paused, letting his irate roommate simmer down for a moment, a malicious grin spreading across his face. "Why'd she throw you out? Failure to salute?"

It took a few seconds for Frank to get that one, but when he did the tantrum was beautiful. "That is _it_! I've had just about enough of you! With your _jokes_, and your _insults_, and your... more jokes. I've had it! Do you hear me? _Had it_! I'm not going to stick around here and take this abuse!"

"Well don't stay on my account, Frank. Feel free to check out at any time. Don't let the war hit you in the ass on the way out."

At this point, Frank ran out of words. His fury was a joy to behold, although the Swamp took a bit of collateral damage. Frank's alarm clock was the first casualty, swiftly followed by a couple of martini glasses, and a lamp that was thrown with blessedly poor accuracy at Hawkeye's head, the glass exploding a few inches above him as he pulled his sleeping bag over his face for protection .

Shaking with poorly suppressed giggles, Hawkeye peeked out, only to find the enraged Frank standing over him with a strange, wide-eyed expression on his ferrety little features and one muddy boot in his hand. "You don't really mean that."

"No, I'm deadly serious. Go! You'd save more lives by going home that you ever did in the O.R.!" It was only now that Hawkeye noticed the look on Frank's face was forlorn rather than murderous, and the way his voice had cracked, switching from barking like a territorial Chihuahua to whining like a kicked puppy. As Hawkeye regarded him with a mixture of pity and loathing, there was nothing remotely threatening about this man. "Put the boot down, Frank. You're not going to murder me with army issue footwear. What would MacArthur say? Hmm?"

It would normally take more than that to peel the Major off the ceiling during one of these spats, but on this occasion he dropped his boot on the floor without protest. When he plopped down at the foot of Hawkeye's cot, it became apparent why. There was a distinct smell of brandy on his breath. Hawkeye hadn't noticed it before, but there was also a redness to his eyes, although whether that was drink or emotion was anybody's guess. Hawkeye suddenly had that sinking feeling in his stomach that he got occasionally when he pushed things too far. He suspected he may have put his foot in his mouth – or he would have if Frank wasn't sitting on it. He wiggled said foot, but Frank didn't budge.

"It's just, you don't know how hard it is," Frank was saying, staring drunkenly into the middle distance, "taking this sort of abuse, day in and day out. And it's not just you – you wouldn't _believe_ some of the mean things people say to me!"

"Oh, I can imagine!" Hawkeye replied, more preoccupied with trying to free his foot than listening to Frank's self-pitying rant-_du-jour_.

"It's like... all my life it's been the same!" Frank slurred.

"That's nice Frank, but can you move?"

"My father – he always hated me! And Margaret – well she _says _she loves me but she's so _bossy_. It's like, 'Frank, paint my toenails for me!' and 'Frank, when are you leaving your wife?' and 'Frank, I'm not doing that – it's _unsanitary_!' I mean doesn't the woman know _I_ have feelings too? Huh?!"

"Speaking of feelings, I can't feel my toes."

"And then there's you – sniping and goading and jibing, day after day, day in and day out! You don't know how much it hurts!"

"I'm getting an idea..." Hawkeye's ankle had started to cramp.

"No you don't!" Frank pointed an accusing finger in his roommate's vague direction. His eyes had glazed over and he seemed to be angrily addressing Hawkeye's left shoulder. "You don't have a _clue_! You have no idea how hard it is, knowing that you hate me! Knowing I have to hide how I feel all the time! Every night I go to bed and I keep playing it over and over in my mind, thinking about you and the things you've said... and the things you've done, because... I know don't _care about me_, and because I know you never will, and because... because I love you Pierce!"

"Jesus, Frank! Could you shift your bony... wait – what?!"

Suddenly the pain in his foot was forgotten and Hawkeye froze, staring in disbelief as Frank gazed back at him with the kind of forlorn, pleading, puppy-dog expression he normally reserved only for Margaret. Hawkeye suddenly felt a chill, as if the clammy, humid air in their tent had dropped a few degrees. He shivered, blinked a couple of times, and swallowed hard.

"What did you say?"

Frank was still gazing at him with those blood-shot, adoring eyes. Eyes that said he'd had one glass too many about five glasses ago. Eyes that said he was going to regret this in the morning. "I said I love you Pierce. I have done for a long time and I never said anything! Ever! I can't get you out of my head... Your face, your smile, your stupid little laugh. I lie awake at night just thinking about you!" Oblivious to Hawkeye's more than evident discomfort, Frank leaned a little closer. "Do you... ever think about me? You know what I mean... right? You can tell me, y'know."

For the first time in his life, Hawkeye was lost for a witty retort. Was he really hearing this? Stunned, embarrassed and more than a little disturbed, he tried to force his brain to communicate with his mouth and form words. "Well I... I... ow! OW!" He didn't get far. Pain set in once more as Frank's shifting weight allowed the blood to return to his foot, which was now reminding him of its discomfort. As he rolled around hugging the offending appendage, he was _very _aware of Frank clutching at him and making whimpering noises of apology. The Major had managed to end up lying on the cot beside him, one hand rubbing at his thigh in some licentious impersonation of 'helping' and the other grasping the front of his t-shirt.

"I'm sorry!" Frank squeaked, his anxious little ferret face mere inches away from Hawkeye's nose. "I didn't mean to tell you like this! Please, Pierce... uh, Hawkeye." He gave a nervous little giggle at his use of Hawkeye's nickname. "Heh! It feels so _nice_ just to be able to say your name like that! Oh Hawkeye..."

Suddenly that anxious grin was gone, replaced by something darker and more intense as he leaned closer, and Hawkeye realised in that moment of horror that Frank was about to kiss him. "_Oh _no!" he yelped, propelling himself backwards so his entire upper body shifted off the mattress and out of Frank's reach, suspending himself above the ground with one arm while he pushed the amorous Frank away with the other. "Knock it off, Frank! You're gonna hate yourself in the morning."

A questing hand began pulling at his clothes, and Hawkeye slapped it. Hard. "Ow!"

"_Quit it_! There will be no canoodling with the Captain, Major! It's uh... it's fraternisation! Yeah, that's what this is!"

"Oh don't be silly!" Frank giggled, pawing at Hawkeye like an oversexed schoolboy. "We're both officers! That's not fraternising! C'mon, I'm really quite good at this – just ask Margaret!"

Hawkeye snorted, torn between being amused by Frank's boasting and feeling violated by his incessant groping. "Ok, so my military terms are a little hazy," he grumbled, wrestling Frank away so he could reclaim some degree of personal space on the bunk – _his_ bunk. "Let me try some words we _both_ understand: _Get your hands off me or I'll punch you in the nose_!"

Frank ceased his pawing and wriggling and finally stilled. An awkward silence descended as Hawkeye's words gradually sank in. The Major's eyes darted this way and that, seeming to suddenly notice the twisted 'embrace' they had got themselves into – the way his legs had worked their way around Hawkeye's, the way Hawkeye was grasping his wrists to hold him back. At last, he focused once more on Hawkeye's face, and he pouted, looking like a child who had just been told he couldn't have a new toy. "But... I don't get it! You're just the kind of wet-blanket, namby-pamby, messed-up, lefty degenerate who'd go in for this sort of thing!"

Hawkeye rolled his eyes. "Oh now he turns on the sweet talk! How could I resist?"

Beside him, a little too close for comfort, he could feel Frank shaking. "_You_ were the one who _blackmailed _me out of reporting that little snotty little pervert we had in last year! I thought you'd _understand_!"

"Oh I understand, Frank. I understand just fine! What I do _not_ do, however, is reciprocate!"

Frank looked at him, utterly befuddled. "Recip- what?"

"I mean the feeling is _not_ mutual, Frank! Just because a person objects to the treatment of certain individuals within This Man's Army does _not _mean he's open to the advances of every hypocritical self-loathing closet-case who comes along! Now get your mitts off me and get out of my bed – before one of us does something _you_ regret!"

Frank didn't move. Hawkeye closed in and glared at him at close quarters.

"_Now_!"

At last Frank got the message. He tumbled off Hawkeye's bunk in an undignified tangle of limbs and sloped back to his own without a word. Hawkeye watched his retreat, tense and uneasy, waiting for the torrent of insults that Frank was no doubt dreaming up to salve the pain of rejection. But none were forthcoming. Frank simply threw himself silently onto his bunk with a defeated sob. Then he was silent.

Figuring the evening's entertainment was done, Hawkeye turned over and stared at the canvas wall beside him. He pulled his scratchy army-issue blanket around his shoulders. He wasn't cold, but it was about the only comfort there was to ease the awful gnawing feeling in his gut. He hoped against hope Frank was too drunk to remember by the morning, because otherwise the fallout was going to be _messy_. The last thing this camp needed was another dose of Frank's neuroses. In theory, tonight could be the ultimate sway to use against the Major every time he tried to pull rank, but Hawkeye couldn't do that. He may be a lot of things but he had principles.

Oh god, _why_? Out of all the guys in this unit, or any other unit, why _Frank_? If pretty much _anyone else_ had made that same confession, he would have been flattered! In the case of one or two of the guys in particular, he had to confess that if he's heard those same words from them he would have been on it like General MacArthur on a small Communist uprising. But no – he'd got landed with a drunk, deeply neurotic and all-too-handsy Frank Burns. Clearly his luck extended as far as poker games and women, and ran out shortly before it got to cute chopper pilots and ruggedly handsome corpsmen.

A whimper broke through the tranquillity of his thoughts, and Hawkeye realised Frank was crying. He cringed inwardly, part embarrassed on Frank's behalf and part wishing he could just shut up and sleep so they could forget about the whole thing.

Another couple of stifled sobs and a pathetic sniffle.

Hawkeye turned and glanced over at Frank's trembling silhouette as he huddled under his blanket. "Frank, I'm sorry," he said gently. It was the most sincere apology he'd given the man in the entire time he'd known him. "It's nothing personal! If it makes it easier, we can forget it ever happened."

Frank sniffed again. "Oh shut up Pierce! Some of us are trying to sleep!"

Hawkeye frowned. Somewhere in the depths of his soul he felt sorry for Frank Burns. It must be hard going through life hating yourself so much you had to turn the venom outwards onto other people to make room for more hate. He watched as Frank aggressively rolled over and kicked at his blanket, burying his face in his pillow. Anxious and uneasy, Hawkeye lay back and resumed his study of the ceiling.

Both of them were quietly and peacefully feigning sleep by the time Trapper returned in the small hours.

The sun rose early, and so did Trapper. He was eager to regale Hawkeye with details of his evening, and so, somewhat begrudgingly, Hawkeye rose too. He'd managed about three hours of sleep – which in this place could make it one hour for every ten he'd have to be awake for. He tried to listen to Trapper's animated boasting, but through the haze of sleep deprivation and worry over what this morning may bring, he could barely summon a response.

Frank was still dead to the world, and the longer he slept the more Hawkeye found himself hoping the events of last night may have wiped themselves from his memory.

"And that was another thing I liked about her," Trapper was saying, scraping at his lathered chin with the least dull of his army-issue razors. "She was _feisty_, y'know? None of that coy crap. Sometimes it makes a change to have someone just _grab_ you and _throw_ 'emselves at ya. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I know," Hawkeye muttered, leaning heavily against the stove. His eyes flickered briefly to where Frank was still sleeping and he shuddered.

Trapper paused for a moment and glanced at Frank. "Don't worry about Frank, he's sparko. Margaret must'a worn him out!" He gave a dirty laugh and shot Hawkeye a knowing smirk.

"I guess so," Hawkeye lied, playing along. He wasn't entirely sure whose dignity he was preserving here.

"Although," Trapper mused, finishing his shave and sidling closer to Frank's bunk, cup of cold and foamy water in his outstretched hand, "it _is_ high time His Majorship was up and at 'em. We _know_ how he hates slackers and lollygaggers, right?" His arm tilted.

"Trap, don't..." Hawkeye cautioned him with a shake of his head.

"Hey, we'd be doing him a favour!" Trapper implored. "Besides, he'd do the same to us!"

Before Hawkeye could protest further, Trapper dumped the contents of his shaving mug over Frank's head. The Major awoke, spluttering and shrieking, and leapt to his feet. "Why you... _cretins_!" he bellowed, wiping frantically at his face. "You absolute _slimebags_! I ought'a report you! Which one of you degenerates is responsible...?"

He trailed off as he caught Hawkeye in his furious glare, and recollection began to dawn on his face. Anger subsided, and shame and horror crept in.

"Morning Frank," Hawkeye said, in as neutral a tone as possible.

Frank didn't say a word. In a sudden whirlwind of activity he turned away and snatched up his things in a disorganised bundle, shoving his left foot into his right boot and glancing about himself for the other one. Getting more and more agitated, he eventually found it next to Hawkeye's bunk, where he had dropped it the night before, shortly before climbing inside said bunk to try and seduce its occupant. He grabbed it, only to find the laces tangled with Hawkeye's, and a brief wrestling match occurred betwixt man and footwear until Frank finally emerged victorious and stomped off semi-shod in the direction of the showers.

Trapper watched in total bemusement at the display. "What," he uttered incredulously, "was _that_ all about?"

Hawkeye pressed a hand to his head. "You don't wanna know," he moaned.

"Oh come on, you gotta tell me! What did you do?"

"You _really _don't wanna know!"

"And I say I do! I wanna know!"

"Frank made a pass at me."

"You're right – I don't wanna know."

"I didn't either!" Hawkeye declared, collapsing onto his bunk with his head in his hands. "I could have quite happily gone through the rest of the war without knowing. Now not only do know, but Frank knows that I know, and the fact that I said 'no', and so now we have... this, which is just... I don't know." He gestured at the door, referring to Frank's melodramatic departure.

Trapper nodded – knowingly. "No shit."

Hawkeye raised a weak smile. "Gimme a drink would ya?"

"So Frank's got the hots for you," Trapper mused, taking a stroll over to the still. "I feel for you, I really do. News like that can really mess up the war for a guy!"

"Like life wasn't difficult enough before. This is gonna be impossible. You know what he's like when he doesn't get his way. He'll be doing everything he can to punish _me _for _his _guilty conscience! Not content with merely slamming his closet door, he's gonna try to smash my fingers in it in the process!"

Trapper poured two breakfast martinis – they were exactly like evening martinis only they had to be consumed while uttering something like "it's happy hour in Boston" or "lunchtime was _hours _ago in San Francisco" – and shoved one into Hawkeye's hands.

"Cheers," Hawkeye said, taking a sip. "Ooh, cheeky! It's like Vermouth mixed with lighter fluid."

"Well you're half right," Trapper replied, "but we ran out of Vermouth last week."

"So what do you think I should do?"

"I think you should drink slowly and if you start twitching or convulsing we'll pump your stomach and try switching the paraffin for TCP on the next batch."

"About _Frank_, I mean."

Trapper took a seat opposite his buddy and stroked his chin in thought. "Hmm. Well you're too late for a spring wedding, that's for sure."

"Trapper, I'm serious! We have to live with this! This tent isn't big enough for Frank's emotional baggage."

"He's really got to you hasn't he? What the hell happened?" All hint of joking gone, Trapper leaned in and grasped his arm gently. "Hawk, just say the word and I'll string him up from a flagpole by his underwear."

"No, no," Hawkeye reassured his friend, giving his hand a squeeze. "It's okay, I've got this. I think Frank's handling it worse than me." He laughed for a moment at the absurdity of it all. "How crazy is that? The guy molested me in my own bed and _I'm_ worried about _him_!"

Trapper raised an eyebrow. "Molested?" he asked, squaring his shoulders and miming punching Frank in the face by smacking his fist twice into the palm of his hand.

"Easy tiger," Hawkeye told him. "I told you I'm handling it. If he does it again, _then_ you can go defend my honour."

"Maybe it was just a ruse," Trapper suggested. "You know – a plan to catch you out or something and it backfired."

Hawkeye shook his head. "No, not a chance. Frank's not that good an actor. Frank's not that good an _anything_. This was... genuine, heartfelt even." Glancing about, he dropped his voice a little. "He told me he _loves_ me!" He cringed and shuddered once more, burying his nose in his drink to dull the memory of Frank's impassioned confession.

Trapper's eyes widened. "No kiddin'!"

"On my mother's grave."

"And I always thought Frank had good taste."

Hawkeye smirked at him over the rim of his martini. "He _does_ have good taste. What he _doesn't _have is self-control or the ability to handle rejection."

"How'd he take it? Did he cry?"

Hawkeye paused, momentarily reliving last night in his mind's eye. The drunken pawing, the emotional confessions, and subsequently the shouting, the crying and the threats of violence. He cradled his glass, swirling the contents in a hypnotic spiral. "I should go talk to him," he said softly. He downed the rest of his drink and got to his feet. Trapper's boots immediately occupied his vacated seat.

"I got a better idea. Maybe you should take him up on his offer. Then perhaps he'll throw himself out of the army for sexual deviancy. It's worth a shot – take one for the team, Hawk!"

"Trapper please, I do have _some_ standards."

"That's not what I heard."

"Who's been blabbing?"

"Sorry honey, but when I talk in my sleep I can't help but eavesdrop on my conversations. They're so _naughty_."

Hawkeye shot him a smile and headed for the door. "Then I'll leave you to gossip about me among yourself."

"Hey that's a thought. Hawk – if Frank's all loved up over you does that mean I gotta stop hitting on you in front of him?"

Hawkeye pondered that for a moment. "No, but if he gets jealous I'll let you fight him for my affections."

"What if I lose?"

"I'll tell him you've got me pregnant and Henry's forcing me to marry you."

"That's cute. You can borrow Klinger's wedding dress!"

"I can't wear white, Trapper, we both know that."

With Trapper's filthy laugh ringing in his ears, Hawkeye stepped out into the warm Korean summer and went on the hunt for his not-so-mysterious admirer.

The shriek Frank made as Hawkeye came crashing unceremoniously into the shower tent was comical. "I need to talk to you."

Frank was cowering in one of the cubicles, hair full of suds. "Get lost!" he spluttered through the water.

"Nuh-uh," Hawkeye responded, barricading the door with a convenient shipping crate labelled "FRAGILE" and sitting on it for an extra measure.

"I said _get lost_!" Frank repeated, grabbing his towel and trying to make a break for it. Hawkeye leaned over and stopped the door with his foot.

"Not happening. And if you try to pull a fast one I'm gonna barricade you in there and beat you into submission with a soap-on-a-rope. Now about last night..."

"I don't wanna talk about that!"

"Well we all have to deal stuff we don't want to, Frank," Hawkeye said, employing his best stern schoolteacher voice. "I didn't _want _to get a midnight physical in the privacy of my own bed but _somebody_ had a little too much of the sauce and couldn't keep his hands to himself!"

He gave Frank a pointed glare, which he didn't really notice because he was busy staring at his feet. Hawkeye paused, maybe expecting Frank to offer an apology, but none was forthcoming.

He continued. "But what's done is done. The problem is, we have to _live _together – eat, sleep, breathe, all that stuff, not to mention the delightful job of piecing together bits of America's finest in an O.R. the size of a can of tuna– so unless you're planning on hiding in that stall until the war's over, we need to come up with something that'll make the living and the working bearable."

More silence. More embarrassed shifting from Frank.

"You know, the point of a conversation is that when I go quiet, it's your turn to talk. Feel free to pitch in at any time."

Huffing and picking at the loose threads on his towel, Frank just shrugged. "I just want to forget the whole thing," he said at last, refusing to make eye contact.

Exasperated, Hawkeye beat his hand against the stall, making Frank shake in his soap suds for a second. "Well, I'll just book us into the O.R. for a couple of lobotomies, shall I?! And hope we can still operate with our eyeballs dangling from our skulls! Although in your case, that may be an improvement. Now, can we please come up with a solution that works in the real world?"

There was another pause. Frank poked distractedly at the floor with his toes.

"_Anything_?" Hawkeye pressed.

"Okay, I'm thinking!" Thinking clearly took a while as it was some time before he spoke again. "I could apply for a transfer," he said at last.

Hawkeye was stunned. He had no idea the situation was that bad. "Transfer? Frank, the only other unit currently in need of new personnel is the aid station on the front line! Are you _that_ desperate to avoid me? Is my presence really more frightening than the prospect of getting blown up?"

"Isn't that what you want?" Frank spat, finally looking up and catching Hawkeye with an angry glare. "To get me as far away from you as possible? Even if it gets me killed?! Even if it involves using what I said last night to twist my arm to force me to leave?"

"_No_!" Hawkeye's protest was probably loud enough to be heard across the camp, and he cringed for a moment, dropping his voice. "Is that honestly what you think I'd do?" He felt insulted, but only for a second, as he realised Frank's assumption had nothing to do with what he thought of Hawkeye and _everything_ to do with what he thought of himself. "Look, don't go applying for a transfer on account of me. _You're _the one I'm worried about. Of the two of us, I'm not the one who freaked out in the morning and tried to go five rounds with his own footwear because he couldn't get out the door fast enough. So tell me, what do you want from me? Aside from the obvious – which you're still not getting, by the way."

Frank went bright red. "I want you to not make jokes like that for a start!"

Hawkeye nodded in compliance. "Done. Anything else? What about what you said last night, about me being a jerk? You want me to go easy on you for a while?"

"No," Frank whined after a moment's thought. "Only because if you _did _I'd know why you were doing it. I just want everything to go back to normal – like it never happened."

"Okay, so it's agreed: We return to our regularly scheduled bad-mouthing, mud-slinging and general abuse."

"One more thing," Frank interjected, still sounding sullen. There was a pause as he gathered his thoughts, seeming to psyche himself up for something. "I'm sorry," he said eventually, "for how I... you know. If I'd done that to a woman I'd have a court martial to answer to, so... sorry."

"If you'd done that to _anyone else_ you'd have _me _to answer to," Hawkeye informed him, his tone thick with warning. "Lucky for you I have even less regard for my personal space than you do! So apology accepted, now come on! Lay one on me!"

Frank looked momentarily startled. "What?"

"Insult me!" Hawkeye interjected quickly before Frank's brain could take the conversation somewhere it didn't need to go. "I'm not leaving this tent until we get some degree of normality back! Me yelling at you, you yelling at me, throwing things, winding each other up. Come _on_!"

Frank shrugged. "I don't know what to say."

"Call me a... an insubordinate layabout, a lowlife beatnik, a foul-mouthed liquor-swilling disgrace to the American war effort. Or just _throw_ something at me. Your soap – throw your soap. Extra points if you hit me. Come on!"

Frank examined the bar of soap in his hand – the usual solid army issue mucus-green brick that smelled like creosote and took a week and a half to build up a lather. "I don't want to," he replied a little sulkily.

"Frank, throw the soap or I'm coming in there and stealing your towel!"

"I'd like to see you try!"

Hawkeye cracked his knuckles. "Have it your way." Never one to back down from a challenge, he advanced towards the stall, and Frank seemed to reflexively cower in the corner, clutching his towel in front of him so hard his knuckles turned white. As Hawkeye got within grabbing distance, however, Frank swatted the shower head with the soap and grabbed the cord. The shower head spun, and before he could dive out of the way Hawkeye got hit square in the face with a torrent of tepid water.

It took some time for the spray to subside, but it eventually reduced to a steady drip. Opening his eyes, Hawkeye wiped his face and fixed Frank with a mildly annoyed glare.

Staring back at him, the look of fear on Frank's face gradually faded. His lip twitched, and at last he broke into a smile. Then he laughed.

"Touché, Major," Hawkeye said. "Touché." Wiping water from his eyes and retreating to the door to remove the makeshift barricade, he smiled. "See Frank – nothing's changed. You're the same obnoxious creep you've always been."

Chuckling, Frank resumed his shower, returning the plumbing to its original position. "You're gonna get me for that later, aren't you?" he asked as Hawkeye went to leave.

Pausing at the door, Hawkeye smirked darkly. "Would you expect anything less of me?" With that, he left Frank alone with a sense of both relief and foreboding.

Trapper was on his way to the mess tent for something that liked to masquerade as breakfast. He stopped in his tracks though when he caught sight of Hawkeye returning from his talk with Frank. His roommate wandering back to the Swamp from the direction of the showers, soaked to the skin with water dripping from his hair. Trapper's jaw dropped. "Oh Hawk... you didn't! I was _kidding_!"

Hawkeye paused for a moment, then regarded his own wet clothing. "Oh, this?" He tugged at his wet t-shirt. "Oh _god_ no! Jeez Trapper, please credit me with _some_ taste!"

"You all okay then? No more tantrums from lover-boy over there?"

"Normal service has been resumed; we may go about our business. Our routinely scheduled early-morning consumption of the inconsumable will continue after this brief change of uniform."

"I'll see you in there."

"Save me some beans, will ya? I owe Frank a pillowcase full of slop."

Trapper smiled and gave a playful salute. "Consider it done."

As he turned to head off, the distant drone of approaching choppers began to fill the air.

"_Attention all personnel. Incoming wounded. We are delighted to inform you that breakfast is cancelled._"

In the middle distance, Hawkeye saw Frank emerge from the showers wrapped in his towel and robe, hat pulled down over his still-soapy hair, barking unnecessary orders at everyone around him. "Tuck that shirt in, Corporal! You'd better not be going near the O.R. with _those_ fingernails! Klinger! Take that damned dress off and go put on a uniform!"

"Don't you dare use language like that towards a genuine Coco Chanel – _sir_!"

"_Off_!" As Klinger stalked away as fast as his heels would allow, Frank turned and glared at Trapper and Hawkeye. "What are you two layabouts doing? Quit standing around and go scrub up! On the double!"

Trapper sighed. "Some things never change."

Hawkeye found himself smiling. "Some things never should."

**T*H*E E*N*D**


End file.
